


Alphabetical Order

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, First Kiss, Friendship/Love, Hormones, Kink Meme, Laughter, Libraries & Librarians, Locked In, M/M, Math and Science Metaphors, Teenagers, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 15:56:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“You’re my best friend.” Sherlock’s grip tightened, and John felt unhealthily warm. He wanted to take off his jumper, and maybe his shirt. He didn’t want to move. He wanted to keep feeling Sherlock’s hand in his and the freedom to say silly, sentimental things while the darkness shielded them from self-consciousness.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alphabetical Order

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd overgrown drabble. Inspired by [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21697.html?thread=125923777#t125923777) on the kink meme, but altered to my taste. Sherlock and John became fast friends at boarding school. A late night archive binge leaves them accidentally locked in the library, and darkness proves a catalyst for confession.

The lights went out with a snap and no other warning. 

The boys sat stock still on the floor in the dust, fingers still pinched to hold places in the books that lay open on their knees and had begun to pile around them. 

“Um,” John began.

“Yes,” Sherlock finished. “So it would seem.”

One nervous giggle became two, became half-smothered laughter, became tears squeezing through eyelids scrunched up with mirth as their shoulders shook. Once they’d caught their breath, John found his friend’s elbow in the dark and tried to pull him into standing. 

“Come on, let’s find a way out.” 

No matter how John tugged, Sherlock refused to stand. “What for?” 

“What do you-- ‘what for’? Do you want to spend the night in the library? Actually, forget I asked. It’s not an option.”

“I wasn’t ready to leave.”

John found it difficult to pin the other student with a glare when all he could make out was the curly outline of a head. He fumbled through his pockets for his mobile phone, pulling it out and stabbing at buttons until the screen lit up, illuminating the space between them. 

Sherlock was grinning. The blue light played strangely with his angular features, making him look even madder than usual. John crouched in front of him and scowled, gesturing to the mess of books and documents that floated around them like debris. 

“This was your idea, Sherlock. Three--” he glanced at the mobile’s screen. “-- _Five_ hours of cave paintings and Chemical Society Reviews, and I’ve still only a vague idea of what we’re looking for or why. The least we can do is clean up this mess and try to salvage some sleep.” The last phrase was muttered, mostly for his own benefit. 

Sherlock gave a flick of all ten fingers that said, “ _details, Watson_ ”, before lacing them together under his chin.

“We weren’t looking for anything. I realized after ten minutes that the symbols in the crypt couldn’t be recreations of the Chauvet paintings, metaphorical or otherwise, even if the style is similar. A kind of artistic coincidence, you could say.” 

John gawped, too surprised to be angry. “So what the hell have we been doing for the past five hours?”

“Well, this was information that might prove useful to me in the future. Especially that bit about dating pigments.” Sherlock shrugged, unapologetic. “I took the opportunity to memorize facts for future reference.” 

“Opportunity to _memorize_...” John tried to sound accusatory but the word slipped out like praise. 

“I have to know these things, John,” Sherlock leaned forward to grip John’s knee, brow furrowing with sudden earnestness. “When it’s for real, when it’s not just cold cases, I won’t be able to stop and look things up. I have to carry it with me, all of it--” 

“Yes, I know, your hard drive,” John interrupted. His face felt flushed and he wasn’t sure why. “You could have told me, though. It’s not like I’m going to remember,” he gestured vaguely toward the open books, “--most of that. I thought I was helping you.”

Sherlock looked surprised. “You were helping.”

“But you said--”

Sherlock waved a hand. “Sometimes it’s-- well. It’s good. Better, in fact.” The electric light glared against his white throat; John could see twitch and glide of muscles when he swallowed. “To have someone on hand. When I’m working.”

John settled against the floor, knees bumping against his friend’s. 

“Someone?” he teased.

Sherlock held John’s gaze with a pinched seriousness. “I mean it, John. You should know that you are-- indispensable to me. To my work.” 

“Like a microscope?” John smiled a little crookedly, eyes dropping to the narrow diamond-shape made by their legs. 

“Y-es,” Sherlock answered, cautiously. “Or,” he frowned. “Like the light under a microscope. You can have all the data and lenses in their proper places but without a light--” he swallowed again, and paused, embarrassed. 

John skin crinkled in places Sherlock knew would one day become laugh-lines. “You know, Sherlock,” John faltered, taking his turn at embarrassment. “To me. You are--”

The mobile light went out. 

In their dusty corner, tucked away from windows and lamplight, the darkness was almost absolute. John huffed a sigh, but didn’t move. He couldn’t hear Sherlock moving, either. He wondered if they were staring at one another, and if Sherlock still wore the same baited-breath expression. John thought he could hear him exhale. 

Long minutes passed. John was about to break the silence when he felt fingertips against his knee. His breath caught in his throat, but he didn’t make a sound.

The fingers travelled up and over his bent leg, and brushed against his wrist. John felt a brief hesitation, an intake of breath, and then Sherlock’s slim hand was in his, fingers curling tentatively. The words John had bottled up came blurting out, again. 

“You’re my best friend.”

Sherlock’s grip tightened, and John felt unhealthily warm. He wanted to take off his jumper, and maybe his shirt. He didn’t want to move. He wanted to keep feeling Sherlock’s hand in his and the freedom to say silly, sentimental things while the darkness shielded them from self-consciousness. 

Cautiously, like the first steps onto a freshly frozen pond, John slid forward. Now their legs were tucked together, his knees bracketing Sherlock’s. He felt a puff of breath against his skin and swallowed, loudly. 

John could just make out the edges of where the darkness ended and Sherlock began, a shadow a little solider than the rest. He leaned forward, the silence screaming in his ears. Even without touching, he could feel the warmth of Sherlock’s skin against his lips, the damp echo of his own breath. 

He kissed the other boy’s cheek, softly. 

Sherlock was quivering, shivers traveling like electricity through their connected knees and fingers. John felt like a fire hazard. 

Knuckles bumped against John’s jaw and skated over one ear, and then Sherlock’s palm, cool and a little damp, was cupping the side of his face. John felt his friend’s lips against the corner of his mouth, licked-wet and hesitant. He tilted his head, just a little. Their quick breaths mingled, then vanished in the meeting of their mouths. After a few seconds, their lips drifted apart. That seemed like a mistake, so they tried again. And a third and fourth time. When they tipped their heads to try the opposite angle it made a slick sound that had John’s toes curling in his shoes. The noises were wonderful.

Sherlock pulled away after what might have been hours, hips shifting and shifting. John took the opportunity to shed his jumper.

“Too hot,” he mumbled, dropping it behind him. They both started chuckling at the same time, breathless little exhales that weren’t quite laughter. 

John couldn’t stop grinning, even when he felt inquisitive fingertips against his teeth. He nipped, and felt Sherlock startle. 

“You know,” John said, trying not to sound as if he’d been running up a flight of stairs, “if you wanted to sit around and snog in the dark, you could’ve just asked.” 

Sherlock snorted, but John could hear his answering grin. “Are you criticizing my methods?”

John’s hands settled against his narrow waist and squeezed. “I guess I can’t argue with results.”

Silence drifted between them, again-- the motif of anticipation. There was a bit of a shuffle, and Sherlock pulled off his jumper, too. His shirt slipped up a little, and John’s thumbs brushed over bare skin. He stroked and felt sharp hipbones that shifted when Sherlock dipped forward, pinching John’s collar by the wings. Lips dared against his throat and John inhaled, a long, sharp breath. It was only one kiss and maybe the smallest tip of tongue, but John’s blood rushed to the poles, and Sherlock found himself tugged astride his best friend’s lap, their legs crooking around one another.

John pressed his face into the taller boy’s neck and slid his hand up to curve around the other side. The mothlike flutter of an artery tickled his palm. He kissed just under Sherlock’s jaw and over his throat, and felt the buzz of humming vocal chords; deep, bass notes. Sherlock’s arms settled around his shoulders and John struggled to keep still. The nudging motion that his hips had started without his noticing was becoming rhythmic and obvious.

Sherlock sighed, as if he had sensed John’s thoughts before John had a chance to catch up with them, and wriggled in a pointedly unhelpful manner. 

“Hey!” If John hadn’t been red-faced before, he certainly was now. 

“You’ve yet to make a compelling argument,” Sherlock murmured damply in his ear, “for leaving the library.” 

John didn’t feel up to forming full sentences, quite yet, and settled for scooting Sherlock out of his lap with a huff. Their legs stayed tangled together, but it gave him a chance to breathe. He groped for the mobile. 

The screen lit up skewed curls and a wary expression, and John realized that Sherlock might have misread the gesture. Kissing him now, in the light, seemed of the utmost importance, so John did.

“God,” he said. “I’d been thinking about that for ages.”

Sherlock’s look of surprise was gratifying, even when it faded into smugness. “How many ages?”

“Shut up.” He tried to kick at him with one foot and found his legs pinned by longer ones. They grappled a little, John fighting to disentangle himself and giggling, helplessly. Papers were crumpled and books spun around them, like flotsam. 

“Sherlock, we should--”

“Don’t want to.”

John had a fistful of posh buttoned shirt and had scrabbled into a kneel when the light went out for the second time. A leg swept his knee and he toppled onto something warm and not altogether soft. Sherlock let out a quiet oof, half laughing, and John was fairly certain he felt a button or two pop loose. There seem to be a great quantity of smooth, heaving skin under his fingers.

“I’m probably dreaming,” he mumbled, rueful. 

Sherlock bit him. 

“Ow!”

“Mm. Not dreaming.”

“You utter--” John tried to cuff him and missed, squeaking his knuckles against the floorboards. Sherlock took this opportunity to try and flip him over, but John had better leverage. He thought that, maybe, they ought to be mortified about rolling in the dust like a pair of puppies-- but all John could feel was a giddy, swelling happiness.

“Did you ever think about it?” he asked, when they had both given in and his head-- absurdly, wonderfully-- was pillowed on his friend’s narrow chest. 

“I do a lot of thinking, John. You’ll have to be more specific.”

John found the underside of his arm and pinched. 

“Rude.”

Rising on his elbows, John traced a path from sternum to plush lower lip with one index finger.

“Open your mouth,” he whispered. Sherlock complied without a word. John fitted their lips together and touched with his tongue. 

When he pulled back, Sherlock breathed, “ _Yes_ ,” almost inaudibly. 

“Okay,” said John, after a long stillness. “Okay.” He sat up and pulled Sherlock upright, too. “I still don’t want to sleep on the library floor.”

This time Sherlock found the mobile and switched it on. They were shockingly rumpled. John began piling their books in an orderly stack, compromising on his plan to put everything back in its proper place, and shuffled sprawling papers into a folder. Sherlock watched in silence. 

When John had finished he cleared his throat and said, “The other students-- your roommates. They will have already noticed your absence. So. That is, if you were concerned about--” 

“I never said I was going to my room,” John interrupted, matter-of-fact. He stood and offered Sherlock a hand.

“But--”

John pulled his friend to his feet and draped his jumper over one shoulder. “I just don’t want to sleep in the library.”

Sherlock blinked at him, shyness and uncertainty made plain, now, without the cover of darkness; then he smiled. John grinned and tugged at a stray curl. 

“Come on, Holmes. I’ll walk you to your place.”


End file.
